


salvation comes only in our dreams

by mihael_jeevas



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Uchiha Massacre, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihael_jeevas/pseuds/mihael_jeevas
Summary: Nobody in the village knew that Shisui was reckless and selfless, that he had a fierce temper that was only matched by how fiercely he loved, and that he had a near-magical ability to convince someone that everything would be alright even when every cell in their body told them otherwise.Itachi believed in this ability the way that worshipers believed in their gods. And for his devotion Shisui decided to pay Itachi back in their family’s blood.
Relationships: Uchiha Itachi/Uchiha Shisui
Comments: 32
Kudos: 76
Collections: ShiIta is Love✨HashiMada is Life





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic will be dealing with the uchiha massacre and the fallout from it, so huge content warnings for death, violence, and descriptions of injuries will ensue. additional warnings will be added as they apply.

Uchiha Itachi is sixteen years old when the boy he loves slaughters their entire clan. 

In the weeks after the massacre--when the village of Konoha collectively decides to bury their decades’ long contempt for and mistrust of the Uchiha to rally against its destroyer--Itachi will watch as the people of his homeland co-opt and warp the narrative of Shisui’s life, twisting his tale from that of being the “only good Uchiha” to someone who has always been suspect, like a predator lurking on the outskirts of the herd. Itachi will try (and fail) to ignore the way people, in their haste to make sense of such a disaster, tell stories of events that never happened and things Shisui never said. And he will think about how the only people who are talking are the ones who never knew Shisui at all, certainly not in the way that Itachi did. Nobody in the village knew that Shisui was reckless and selfless, that he had a fierce temper that was only matched by how fiercely he loved, and that he had a near-magical ability to convince someone that everything would be alright even when every cell in their body told them otherwise. 

Itachi believed in this ability the way that worshipers believed in their gods. And for his devotion Shisui decided to pay Itachi back in their family’s blood. 

Maybe nobody, not even Itachi, really knew Shisui after all. 

*

The night Itachi’s world comes crashing down around him he’s far away from Konoha, battling in Kiri when a feeling deep and dark in his gut tells him something is wrong. 

It’s not the mission itself, Itachi is sure of this; the assignment is a relatively simple one, another routine example of the mess of murder, torture, and secrets that Itachi’s life has become since he was forced into ANBU. In fact, he and his squad are finishing their mission when instinct flares inside him like a sickness, twisting him up until he can feel his pulse racing and sweat prickling at his hairline. That’s why, the moment the job is done, he doesn’t even bother with a proper clean-up before ordering his bewildered team to rush back to the village. But despite their confusion at Itachi’s uncharacteristic lack of discretion and careful planning, rush back they do, and as they travel all Itachi can think about is the coup. He turns over the memory of the day before he left, Shisui’s gentle yet heartfelt reassurance that they could still save their village and their clan and the weight of Sasuke’s tiny hand in his own. It’s enough to power him forward, moving him at a break-neck speed that leaves his fellow ANBU lagging miserably behind, and he maintains that punishing pace as they enter Konoha’s borders and move further into the village’s heart.

Itachi knows what has happened even before he reaches the compound. The time he’s spent in ANBU has taught him well what the scent of blood smells like, how the taste of rot and waste creeps under his tongue and makes a home, invasive and unwelcome. Before him an entire culture lays ruined, small shops and cozy homes wrecked beyond recognition, and his people’s bodies litter the alleys of the land they’ve been forced onto, yet made their own nonetheless. The faces of men and women Itachi has known since birth stare at him, their features contorted in pain and fear, their eyes wide and empty with death. It’s the quiet that tells Itachi there’s no need to check for survivors in this section of town, but he hopes against all odds that somehow he’s not too late to save the people he loves the most.

His mother’s body is still warm when Itachi enters their common room, meaning the killer left Itachi’s direct kin for last. Uchiha Fugaku, a clan leader without a clan, barely clings to life as his son kneels beside him. He can’t speak, his body too badly brutalized to form words, and Itachi, unbearably numb to it all, can offer him no comforting platitudes as he slips from the world; in the end, there’s nothing left to say, no grand finale to their troubled relationship. Instead, he simply holds his father’s hand until the fingers in his grip weaken and slip away. 

Itachi saves Sasuke’s room for last. Multiple members of Root and ANBU, on site to pick up the broken pieces of the Uchiha clan, offer to do the deed for him, but Itachi refuses them all. As much as it kills him, he should be the one to care for Sasuke one last time. His throat impossibly tight and eyes closed, Itachi pushes open Sasuke’s door with a shuddering breath. An unknowable amount of time passes before Itachi forces himself to look at his brother, but once he does relief, swift and powerful enough to bring him to his knees, overwhelms his senses. In front of him Sasuke’s tiny chest rises and fails, his expression slack with sleep as he remains dead to the world but very much alive. Itachi slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the ragged noise threatening to slip out and disturb Sasuke’s temporary peace. Of all the lives lost, the futures ended and hopes extinguished, Sasuke is still here, warm and safe and alive, and Itachi knows in his heart he would have done anything to ensure Sasuke’s continued existence. He also knows there’s one other person in Konoha who would have made the same exact choice, someone who appears to have done just that the moment Itachi wasn’t around to stop him.

Carding his fingers through his little brother’s hair, Itachi can feel the power and pressure of the genjutsu that keeps Sasuke in his dreams. It’s one last kindness Shisui has bestowed upon him, upon _them_ , in the wake of his unrelenting cruelty. But Itachi pushes his thoughts of Shisui out of his mind for the time being. There’s no doubt he’ll spend the rest of his life untangling the events that led to this slaughter and trying to understand what would compel Shisui to take such a horrific action. But that time is not now, because now, like always, Sasuke needs Itachi to be so much more than himself. So he takes Sasuke’s small body in his arms and carries him far away from the bloody remains of their parents, of their clan, of everything they’ve ever known. 

In the morning, Shisui’s jutsu will wear off and Sasuke will be forced to confront the unthinkable. For the time being, Itachi takes him to an inn in the center of the village and lets him sleep. That night, Itachi sits by his bed and wonders how he will live the rest of his life with the knowledge that the one person he trusted above all others is the one person who betrayed him so viciously. There are so many questions and mysteries that fill Itachi’s head, but more than anything he focuses on the searing pain that fills the place in his heart where his innocent, childish affection for Shisui once lived. 

It’s better than admitting that, despite everything that has just transpired, Itachi wishes Shisui was still with him.

But Shisui isn’t with him. Maybe he never was, not in the way that Itachi once believed. And even if he had been he certainly never would be again, leaving Itachi aching at his absence and confused at his sudden and violent disappearance. 

A myriad of emotions--grief, anger, fear--linger on the edges of Itachi’s consciousness, but he pushes them away as he waits for the dawn to break and for Sasuke to stir. When he does, he stares up at Itachi, puzzled by his early return to the village yet obviously pleased to have Itachi home so soon. That happiness quickly fades when he takes in Itachi’s haunted, exhausted expression, and it’s not long before Sasuke unleashes a barrage of demanding and panicked questions. Though he’d love to shield Sasuke from their crumbling world forever, Itachi knows there’s only so long he can conceal the truth. So, after an agonizing silence, he opens his mouth and tells Sasuke everything. 

While much remains up in the air, there is one thing that Itachi is absolutely certain of: the sound of Sasuke’s screaming sobs will haunt him until his dying day. 

*

In the aftermath of the Uchiha clan’s systematic elimination, Itachi feels shockingly little. For once, the ruthless compartmentalizing he’s been forced to adopt to survive the ugliness of ANBU is working in his favor, as it grants him the strength to clean up the mess Shisui left behind. 

Everyone is very sorry for what happened to his family, or so he’s told. Just about every person in Konoha manages to take time out of their day to let Itachi know just how badly they feel about the situation, how it’s such a great tragedy and he’s so strong for continuing on despite his enormous loss. Through it all Itachi smiles politely and accepts their words, all the while knowing that most of the people hated him and his clan until Shisui all but wiped them off the face of the earth. It’s a bitter taste that Itachi has yet to learn how to fully swallow, the way that the residents of Konoha only started to see the Uchiha as human beings the moment their insides were splattered all over the land their village’s prejudices forced them onto. Of course, Itachi doesn’t say that to them. These days, Itachi doesn’t say much of anything. 

The Uchiha compound has been destroyed, houses and businesses torn down and left in a pile of nameless, unremarkable rubble. It had taken a small army to dig enough graves to fit all the bodies. Itachi had been one of them, ignoring everyone’s protests that he shouldn’t get his hands dirty with such business. But Itachi’s hands had been dirty for many years, he argued, and his people deserved to be laid to rest by someone who actually cared for them. 

When the time comes the funeral is massive, faces as far as the eye can see. It would seem as if every person in this godforsaken village has come to pay their nonexistent respects. Itachi even catches the sight of the Nine Tails’ host on the edge of the crowd, the young boy peering at the gathering from the sidelines mournfully. But, true to form, Itachi reserves his attention for Sasuke alone. Sasuke, with his shoulders squared like a soldier ready for war, even as tears pour down his cheeks and his body shakes with the emotions he’s just barely holding in. Beside his brother Itachi is perfectly composed. He doesn’t weep, doesn’t tremble, just stares straight ahead as the ceremony carries on and on. It’s a bright day, unseasonably warm as the sun mercilessly bears down on them. Once he has to close his eyes against the light, and the unprompted vision of Shisui at his side, grief-filled and supportive, fills his mind instead. It burns behind his eyelids, causing his eyes to water against his will, so Itachi forces them to open. 

This time, he doesn’t let himself look away. 

After the funeral, the small group of individuals that Itachi hasn’t managed to keep at a distance accompany him and Sasuke back to their new home. The tiny apartment they’ve moved into after the compound’s destruction is unusually lively; in the last few weeks Itachi and Sasuke have moved around this place like ghosts, going through the motions of life without much passion and with even less conversation. It’s almost startling to see other people in their broken little home, to watch an undeterred Gai try and cheer up a listless Sasuke while Yamato makes tea for the four of them plus Kakashi. 

In hindsight, Itachi supposes it’s not surprising that of all the people who have expressed their condolences it is his two fellow ANBU who have genuinely stepped up to the plate--and Gai, because wherever Kakashi was, Gai was sure to follow. Both Kakashi and Yamato know what it’s like to move through the shadows, collecting traumas like souvenirs, and because of this their presence is almost a comfort to Itachi. At least with these men he doesn’t have to play pretend. 

From his seat at his kitchen table he glances at Sasuke and is relieved to find Gai has finally coaxed his brother into conversation. The smallest of smiles, a gesture that feels so out of place on his face these days, pulls at his lips as he sees a bit of the darkness clears from Sasuke’s eyes. Even if it’s the most momentary of distractions, only the slightest lightening of his brother’s burdens, Itachi will take it. 

With Sasuke suitably disinterested in him, he’s able to speak the words that have been turning over and over in his mind for days now. “I want to go back on active duty.”

Yamato pauses mid-pour and directs a wary look in Kakashi’s direction. He’s not exactly subtle, but perhaps he’s not trying to be, either. 

Kakashi’s own expression gives much less away. For all the years they’ve known each other Itachi still finds the man to be at times very difficult to read. But he’s watching Itachi very carefully, like he’s studying an animal in the woods and trying not to scare it off. Itachi supposes that’s a fair assessment; he’s certainly been on the skittish side these days. “You sure that’s a good idea?” Kakashi asks finally. 

“No,” Itachi answers honestly, after taking a sip from his tea and enjoying the way it scalds his tongue, “but I don’t know what else to do.”

“What about Sasuke?” Yamato asks, slipping into the seat across from Itachi, next to Kakashi. Their positioning makes Itachi feel as if he’s being cross-examined. 

What about Sasuke, indeed. In the wake of the murder of his clan, it wasn’t long before Itachi was summoned before the Hokage and the village elders. No words were spoken in the Hokage’s chambers that Itachi didn’t already know: that, while it was unclear what his motivations were, there was no denying that Shisui was responsible for the destruction and that he fled Konoha after the deed was done. Itachi listened to the tale in an empty silence, trying to force his mind not to recreate the event in great detail as it was spelled out for him so clearly. As the Hokage droned on about how it was such an unnecessary waste of life and agonized over his complicity in the matter, all the while drowning in his own selfish guilt, Itachi said nothing, choosing to curl his fingers into his fists until his nails dug into his palms and he bled. 

To make up for his failings, the Hokage promised that both Itachi and Sasuke would be cared for; the village would cover their expenses and give them all the time and space they needed to grieve and try to make some sort of new life together. But as he spoke Danzo also said nothing, merely watched calmly as Itachi tried not to break into pieces in front of him. And that was when Itachi knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt though without a shred of evidence, that Danzo had something to do with the death all around them, because even in his silence the man’s expression said one thing quite clearly: _I won._

Coming back to the current moment, Itachi simply replies, “Sasuke will be cared for,” which effectively ends the conversation.

His acquaintances--Itachi’s far too distant to call them friends--don’t stay much longer. Yamato departs with a squeeze to Itachi’s shoulder and Gai with an almost painful hug that nearly leaves him breathless once it’s over. For a while, Kakashi doesn’t react at all. It isn’t until everyone else has left and they’re parting at the door that Kakashi tells Itachi, with his astounding trademark bluntness, “Killing Shisui won’t bring your family back.” 

These days, nearly everyone around Itachi has been careful not to bring up That Name around him. At this point, he’s so unused to hearing it that the sound of the consonants and vowels coming together feel like a knife between his ribs. “I never thought it would,” he agrees, a tad hoarse, before adding, “but it certainly won’t hurt.” And then, in an act of petty revenge, he slams the door in Kakashi’s face. 

*

When Itachi joined ANBU, one of the first lessons he received was how to create a box. The box was something you built inside your mind, a little home to store all your unpleasant feelings and dangerous emotions. It was designed to keep yourself safe on missions, to stay grounded and focused on the task at hand and avoid becoming swallowed by the darkness and despair around you. Simply put, it was the key to staying sane in an insane world. Itachi was very good at creating boxes, crafting neat little vaults where he locked up every terrible thought and desire and then threw away the key so he’d never, ever be tempted to snoop through his own dirty laundry. 

The moment he found the first dead Uchiha, Itachi had begun to empty all his memories of and feelings for Shisui inside a new box. Moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day, the Shisui box filled just a little bit more--an idyllic training session here, a lingering, intimate look there. Itachi pushed all of it away with a stunning lack of sentimentality because he _had_ to, because if he spent even a single second thinking of Shisui he knew, with the surety he knew that the sky was blue and the grass was green, that it would destroy him. 

But now that Kakashi has summoned Shisui just by committing the crime of speaking his name, Itachi finds he can no longer file his former friend away so easily. Suddenly, his box is bursting at the seams, leaking remnants of his life with Shisui all over Itachi’s mind. Left without options, Itachi decides to find the key and lift the lid.

He waits until he’s sure Sasuke is fast asleep before he slips out of their apartment. The streets of the village are silent as the grave as Itachi makes the trip he’s taken so many times in his young life. Even as it feels like his heart is splintering, his feet remain sure and guide the way effortlessly. 

The house Shisui shared with his family is old and unassuming. It was only because of Shisui’s standing in Konoha and his father’s rapidly declining health that he was able to escape the fate of the rest of the Uchiha and avoid being moved into the compound. Even after the passing of both his parents Shisui lived in this home, right up until the night he decimated almost everyone that shared his family name.

Almost everyone, save for Itachi and Sasuke.

Gifted as he is at spying and subterfuge, it doesn’t take Itachi long to pick the front door’s lock and step inside. Once he had a key to this home, could enter this place freely and as often as he pleased, and Itachi frequently did just that. Already it feels as if many years have passed since that time. 

A part of Itachi almost expects Shisui to leap from the shadows like some villain from a silly mystery book or ancient legend. But Shisui never appears, leaping or otherwise. It’s just like Hiruzen said: Shisui has left Konoha--and Itachi--for good. 

The stairs creak beneath Itachi’s feet just as they always do as he walks up to the second floor. Nostalgia and heartache swim through his head, and he clings to the bannister to avoid stumbling. In a few steps Itachi is standing in the doorway to Shisui’s bedroom, and after taking a deep, shaky breath, he enters it.

There’s always been a level of chaos to Shisui’s quarters; his cousin was never the cleanest of people, a fact Itachi was always fond of teasing him for. That in mind, the room looks almost normal, with the sheets wrinkled and twisted and the piles of clothes that litter the floor. But Itachi knows better, knows that this particular mess was the product of Shisui’s escape from the village. It doesn’t appear as if Shisui has taken much, merely a handful of clothes and his weapons, but there’s one artifact, one small piece of Shisui’s former life, that’s also missing: the framed photograph of Shisui, Itachi, and Sasuke, all so much younger and so much happier, that has remained on his bedside table for years. 

Ever since they met, Shisui had been a sanctuary for Itachi. His cousin was the one person who never expected more from Itachi than what he was, who was happy to give and give while never wanting anything in return. Whenever life inevitably failed Itachi he would find himself seeking out Shisui, who smoothed over Itachi worries and self-loathing like balm on a wound. Between his career in ANBU and the tensions between the clan and the village, the last few years had been especially difficult for Itachi, and he often found himself in this room. 

The most recent time, only a few weeks before the massacre, Itachi had fled his home in the dead of night after yet another crushing discussion about his future with his father. Shisui, in possession of some of the finest instincts in the village, had woken the instant Itachi started to open his door. “Aren’t you getting a little old for this song and dance?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and his unruly hair flying in a million different directions.

Itachi froze. “Do you want me to leave?” he replied, his own words soft with uncertainty. He was starting to become keenly aware of the way their relationship was changing as they grew older, how his own feelings for his best friend were morphing into something much stronger, much hungrier than they had been before. It was something he had been desperately hiding from Shisui, fearing what it would do to their bond and if his desires would destroy their connection entirely. 

But Shisui merely laughed, in the fond and affectionate way he always did with Itachi. “Never,” he promised, pulling back his sheets so Itachi could join him. It was easy to forget his troubles when Shisui wrapped his arms around Itachi, all lean muscle and smooth skin. It was easy to forget how precarious their world was, how likely it was that all they valued would fall away in the blink of an eye.

It was also easy to forget that Shisui was a killer and that most of the shinobi world outside of their village feared and loathed him, a fact Itachi never should have ignored. But he had been a fool in love, and now he was simply a fool. 

In the aftermath of the Uchiha’s downfall, Itachi has done an impeccable job of repressing everything that isn’t directly related to he and Sasuke’s immediate survival. Not once has he allowed himself to shed tears, not for his parents, not for himself, and certainly not for Shisui. Not once has he paused his single-minded crusade to keep the remaining two-thirds of the Uchiha alive and functioning to grieve for all he has lost and to wonder why he lost it in the first place. 

But as he slips off his shoes and crawls into Shisui’s bed, Itachi’s carefully crafted armor finally cracks. The pillow still smells of Shisui, of the pine-scented soap he uses and his own specific scent that Itachi could recognize even in death, and Itachi presses his face closer to breathe him in. This is what he’s been avoiding, the tangible proof that Shisui was here, that he was alive and that Itachi loved him with everything he was capable of. That Shisui took everything from him and broke his heart. Itachi may never know if Shisui truly cared for him or if he was using him, if all the time they spent together was some sort of sick ploy to get closer to the head of the clan. But even now, in spite of everything, Itachi misses him so much it feels as if all the color has been stolen from the world, like every day is lifeless and gray. Itachi doesn’t know if he’ll ever see the reds of anger or the blues of serenity ever again, because none of it seems to mean all that much without Shisui. 

Part of him wishes Shisui had just killed him, because the pain of being left behind, left _alone_ , is agonizing. Most of him cannot understand why Shisui _didn’t_ kill him; if there was anyone in the world with the power to potentially take him down, it was Itachi, who lagged behind Shisui in skill and strength but not by much. Certainly not now, as he can feel the vile power of the Mangekyo stirring within him, activated by the loss of his parents. 

There are so many questions that remain, about why Shisui spared him, about how Itachi’s going to stop him, about what the rest of he and Sasuke’s lives can even become with such a dark and violent shadow looming over them. But Itachi doesn’t think about any of them. Instead, alone in Shisui’s abandoned house and surrounded by the remnants of the life they once shared together, he finally lets himself break and sobs until, hours later, his tears finally run dry. 

In the morning he’ll return to Sasuke and pretend to be the invulnerable and reliable elder brother that Sasuke has always relied on. But for now, he allows himself to be weak, to be broken, and thinks that it’s fitting, in a cruel and ironic fashion. 

After all, Itachi’s never needed to be more than himself for Shisui, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all the art and literature Itachi has consumed he’s always observed an operatic quality to death, but for him all the high emotions and searing drama simply fall flat. In his life there’s no grandness to melancholy, no beauty in suffering. His pain is quiet and every day, baked into the simple moments of his existence, like getting Sasuke ready for school and untangling the mess that is their laundry pile. Agony, Itachi has quickly discovered, is not lovely, but instead merely another boring feature of life.

Somehow, without Itachi even fully realizing, six months pass in an unremarkable blur.

Grief, Itachi has learned, is a fascinating experience. The massacre was not his first brush with tragedy, and given the state of the shinobi world he highly suspects it will not be his last. In all the art and literature Itachi has consumed he’s always observed an operatic quality to death, but for him all the high emotions and searing drama simply fall flat. In his life there’s no grandness to melancholy, no beauty in suffering. His pain is quiet and every day, baked into the simple moments of his existence, like getting Sasuke ready for school and untangling the mess that is their laundry pile. Agony, Itachi has quickly discovered, is not lovely, but instead merely another boring feature of life. 

As he suspected, it doesn’t take Konoha very long to move on from the decimation of the Uchiha clan. The event drives the rumor mill for a few months, animates the bars and markets and shops, but eventually the public decides they’ve spent a suitable amount of time openly mourning a mass genocide. A part of Itachi--the rational piece of himself that is driven by logic and free of scar tissue--doesn’t blame them; perhaps he would have made the same choice to turn away from the abyss of his people’s slaughter were it not happening to him. But Itachi does not have that luxury; while the villagers pick up and move on with their lives Itachi continues to stand still, held in place by the weight of everything that no longer remains. 

If there’s any silver lining to the situation it’s that Sasuke is slowly entering the category of people who are recovering from the disaster. The mental and emotional state of his younger brother was precarious at first and to a degree still remains so. The first few days after the murders were the worst, as Itachi had to fight Sasuke tooth and nail to eat, to study, to do anything other than sleep all day and night. Watching his baby brother, always so vibrant, so loving, so full of life, enter a fugue state is a memory Itachi wishes he could purge from his mind, and he can’t imagine who--or _what_ \--Sasuke would become if he hadn’t been spared from witnessing the carnage first-hand. 

Slowly yet surely, however, the shattered pieces of Sasuke’s life are beginning to fuse back together. Almost immediately after the tragedy Itachi had decided to take his own struggles out of the equation, as regardless of his conflicted emotions he had to carry on for his brother. No matter what, his main priority was to create some sense of stability and normalcy for his last remaining family member--at least, the last remaining family member that _wasn’t_ wanted for mass murder. Thus, Itachi quickly made the leap from devoted elder brother to mother and father combined, attacking everyday chores like cooking his brother’s meals and washing their clothes with a work ethic not seen since his Academy days. If there was one thing in this world he could never lose, one person he couldn’t bear to fail, it was the tiny child that relied on him the most. 

But in his haste to save Sasuke from the black hole that was their shared trauma, Itachi realizes that his nearly half a year of mildly codependent caretaking has perhaps done his brother a disservice. It’s a crisp early winter evening, the open windows of their small home bringing in the breeze and the sounds of the village below them. Itachi is clearing the table after finishing yet another mediocre dinner--he can admit that for all his many talents, cooking regrettably isn’t one of them--when Sasuke’s soft voice pipes up to say, “I can help, you know.” 

Itachi tilts his head curiously as he sets a stack of dirty plates in the sink. “With what?”

Sasuke shrugs, suddenly looking childishly embarrassed for ever speaking up in the first place. Every once in a while Sasuke finds a new way to break Itachi’s heart all over again. This time it’s the fact that the boy in front of him, with his lowered eyes and insecure body language, is a far cry from the child who once said and did everything that came to his mind no matter the consequences. “I dunno,” he eventually says, “everything? I mean, you do so much for me and you never… no one ever takes care of you.” 

If it were anyone else, Itachi would point out that all the people who had ever taken care of him are long gone. But it’s Sasuke, with his big, sad eyes and painfully earnest expression, so instead Itachi asks, “Is this you offering to clean your room?”

Pulling a face, Sasuke quickly replies, “Definitely not,” and for the first time in months Itachi laughs. The sound has become so foreign that its appearance is almost startling to him, but in response Sasuke immediately brightens in a way Itachi hasn’t seen since that fateful night. 

For just a moment, Itachi’s shoulders feel the tiniest bit lighter. In the grand scheme of things it isn’t much, but for now it is enough. “Perhaps we can start with the dishes and work our way up to more significant chores?” he suggests. 

“No promises,” Sasuke mutters, rising from the table to stand by Itachi at the sink. Without thinking, Itachi reaches over to gently poke his forehead, the first time he’s done so in months, and he almost immediately regrets it as Sasuke instantly freezes. But it’s not long before a wide grin spreads across his brother’s face, and he’s diving into the task ahead of him with an amusing level of vigor. 

Standing in the home they’ve made for themselves, Itachi takes a single moment to be grateful for what he has left before life inevitably moves on.

*

Despite his less than pleasant reaction to Kakashi’s suggestion to avoid returning to active duty, Itachi had actually taken the warning to heart. In the months following his clan’s destruction, Itachi decided to favor reason over the gut instinct that was telling him to hunt Shisui down like a dog. Though he hated to admit it, Kakashi did have a point: dragging Shisui’s corpse back to Konoha, if Itachi could even manage to kill him, would bring him no peace or comfort, and it was far more important to remain by Sasuke’s side. For now, his brother’s well-being far outweighed Itachi’s need for justice or revenge or whatever it was he hoped to accomplish by defeating his former friend. 

So, instead of resuming his role of a lamb to the slaughter, Itachi was placed on, of all things, desk duty. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar role for him, as being a high-ranking member of ANBU came with its fair share of paperwork. Since his school days Itachi always had a talent for stringing words together in a fashion that was pleasing to his superiors, meaning in the months following the massacre he fits in well with the Hokage’s legion of typers, analysts, and overall yes-men. 

But even with the high quality of his work there’s a part of Itachi that feels wildly out of place. After all the years he’s spent thieving, assassinating, and torturing, it’s darkly amusing to suddenly find his days filled with letter-writing and budget propositions. Sometimes when Itachi’s sitting at his desk, unoccupied and slipping in and out of a dissociative trance, he’ll look down at his hands and see blood drying in the lines of his palms, caked under his fingernails. It’s never for long, the moment passing almost immediately after it happens, but it leaves Itachi feeling unglued for the rest of the day. 

Truth be told, he’s restless. Even though Itachi never wanted to be a shinobi, never wanted to be tasked with the taking of lives and the spreading of violence, now that he’s lived a lifetime doing just that it’s hard to remake himself. It’s not as if he’s unhappy to have more time to spend with Sasuke or that he’s ungrateful for the opportunity he’s been given; it’s just that the longer he remains within the village borders, the clearer it becomes that he doesn’t belong here. He feels like a caged animal, feverish and on edge. So, as the leaves fall from the trees and the nights grow colder and longer, Itachi decides enough is enough.

He’s inside the Hokage’s chambers, the room blessedly empty save for the two of them. This is not the kind of conversation he wants to have in front of Konoha’s elders and _certainly_ not in front of Danzo. The Hokage is watching him with the mix of shame and pity he always has on his face these days when he looks at Itachi, an expression Itachi is growing exceptionally weary of. “Itachi,” the old man says, his voice slow and gravelly, “are you sure you’re ready?”

“It’s been nearly seven months since the incident,” Itachi replies. 

Hiruzen’s frown deepens. “That isn’t what I was asking.”

“It’s the only answer I can give you,” he says, irritation bubbling in his chest. Often Itachi feels as if there’s no pleasing anyone, that there’s no right way he can respond to the tiny matter of his people’s gruesome extinction. He hears how people whisper about him, how he’s too cold, or he hasn’t grieved enough, or that he should cut his losses and move on faster. The longer this public mourning charade goes on the more tired Itachi grows, which is all the more reason to put himself in the line of duty where absolutely no one cares about him. 

The Hokage is silent for a moment, expression thoughtful, before he says, “There’s been no sign of Shisui, if that’s what concerns you.”

Itachi represses the unprofessional urge to roll his eyes. _Of course_ there hasn’t been any sign of Shisui; the man was hard enough to keep track of when he was loyal to Konoha, always shunshin-ing in and out of existence, determined to do things his own way. Now that he’s gone rogue they’ll be lucky if they ever find him. 

The thought of Shisui disappearing forever most certainly does not send a shuddering pang through Itachi’s chest. 

Rather than addressing the elephant currently stampeding through the room, Itachi says, “I’m not here because of Shisui. I want things to return to normal--as normal as they can be, given everything that’s transpired,” he clarifies. “Walking on eggshells isn’t doing Sasuke any good, and quite frankly it hasn’t been helpful for me, either. Please don’t misunderstand; I am appreciative of all you’ve done for us, but we can’t be coddled forever.” 

Softness fills the old man’s features, and Itachi has to look away. For a moment, it’s as if he's seeing his own father, back in the days when his father actually looked at Itachi with warmth and pride in his eyes. That was long before the pressures of being the clan leader and the middle man between the village and his people sharpened Uchiha Fugaku into something else entirely, turned him into the type of person who could flip Itachi’s stomach just by showing his scowling, disapproving face. 

“I still don’t agree with your decision,” the Hokage tells him, and Itachi’s so preoccupied by thoughts of his father it takes him a moment to remember what they were even discussing, “but if you’re certain you’re making the right choice, I will reinstate you.” 

An unexpected relief spreads through Itachi’s veins, thick as syrup, as he bows respectfully in response. When he rises from his position, he ignores the way Hiruzen is looking at him, because it’s the way that most people have looked at him ever since the day he lost everything: as if they’re seeing a ghost. 

*

From the moment it rolls in the winter is uncharacteristically abysmal. Growing up in Konoha, an area revered for its temperate climate, means that Itachi has really only experienced snowfall on missions to faraway lands. There is one exception, one freak blizzard that occurred the year he turned twelve, but he buries that memory as deep in his mind as he can manage; the less he thinks of a chubby-faced Shisui pushing him and Sasuke into the snow while grinning from ear to ear, the better. 

This winter Itachi watches from his office in Hokage tower--the office he’ll soon be leaving--as the snow piles thick and high throughout the village. He chooses to ignore the reedy, excited voices of children playing beneath as he finishes up his few remaining projects to ensure a smooth transition to his successor. Itachi had only met the woman once, an eager-eyed chuunin who passionately shook Itachi’s hand during their introduction, but just thinking of her bright smile makes him feel vaguely ill. 

As expected, Sasuke does not take the news of Itachi’s impending deployment well. The moment the words leave Itachi’s mouth his brother all but shuts down, features tight and shoulders stiff. Guilt ripples through Itachi’s chest just looking at him, but he has no idea how to make things right. It isn’t as if he can explain to Sasuke what it meant to be in ANBU, what the organization had done to him. There was no way he could tell a ten year old how years of service left him hollow, like an empty sieve waiting to be filled by whatever terrors the state decided he needed to inflict. He couldn’t tell Sasuke that these days he didn’t know who or what he was without ANBU, if he was even a person at all anymore. And he certainly could not say, to Sasuke or even himself, that he was sure Shisui had left the village with the last piece of Itachi that he could call his own. 

Instead, Itachi simply says, “I’m sorry, Sasuke,” and pokes his little brother’s forehead, the gesture as inadequate as always. But Sasuke allows it, because he’s a far kinder person than Itachi, generous with his affections in a way that Itachi never has been, before stomping off to his bedroom and closing the door. 

From that moment on there’s a noticeable fissure in their relationship, a sour taste that sits in the back of Itachi’s throat no much he tries to swallow it down. There’s a guarded resignation in his brother that stings more than he could have predicted it would, but perhaps the feeling pricks at him because deep down Itachi knows that Sasuke’s reaction is justified. In his heart of hearts, he knows that the option for a calm, gilded existence has not been taken off the table. He’s more than aware he could sit at the Hokage’s side like a domesticated animal, obedient and cared for. It isn’t that Itachi’s hand is being forced, that he has no choice but to abandon his little brother for a life of blood and savagery; it’s that he’s actively seeking out such misery in the hopes of feeling anything at all. 

But that revelation, like all of Itachi’s other thoughts, stays locked inside the prison of his mind, and he continues on as if nothing has changed at all. He finishes his duty to the Hokage’s office like a faithful servant and makes polite chitchat with the world around him before returning to his home to care for his brother as if there isn’t a gaping hole inside him that widens with every passing second. Itachi ignores the hungry, restless creature in his gut that seems to grow stronger with each passing day, a task that is almost uncomfortably easy. In hindsight, he supposes it’s nowhere near surprising he’s able to wear his mask of normalcy so well, considering Itachi’s talents as a shinobi are only matched by his talents as a liar. After a lifetime of secrets and suffering, one more deception is hardly enough to tip the scale. 

The evening ending his last day of desk duty is a particularly icy one, the small village streets precarious as Itachi embarks on the short walk back to his apartment. As he cuts through the crowd a young face catches his attention, and Itachi pauses to take in the ruddy, whiskered cheeks and defiant pout of the Nine Tails boy. The memory of his family’s memorial service--an event he does his best never to reminisce of--cuts through his mind, and a twinge of sympathy wells up in his chest. Vividly he remembers how, in the wake of the Nine Tails’ destruction and the Fourth Hokage’s death, Itachi’s mother had all but begged his father to care for the child left behind, as the boy was all that remained of her dearest friend. But, given the suspicion the creature’s attack had cast upon their already maligned clan, Fugaku had firmly forbade it, leaving Uzumaki Naruto entirely alone in the world. Though the decision was a brutal one, Itachi can understand the pragmatism of his father’s thinking; it was yet another example of the no-win situation the Uchiha found themselves forced into during the final years of their existence.

That said, in the current moment there was no Uchiha clan to protect, meaning there was nothing to stop Itachi from carrying out his mother’s wishes. While he was too late to save Mikoto’s life, he could at least pass on a piece of her good will. It was the only gift he could give to her, small and meaningless as it was in the greater scheme of the wretched world she left behind. 

More than a few curious glances follow Itachi as he approaches the boy, who sits on a small bench by the side of the street. Almost immediately Naruto’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing and jaw tensing as he steels himself for what he perceives to be an impending blow. There’s a smudge of dirt across his nose that makes him look impossibly young, and Itachi smothers a wince as he gets a good look at Naruto’s ripped, seasonably inappropriate clothes. _Yet another failure that could be laid at the feet of the great Sarutobi Hiruzen_ , he thinks bitterly, before Naruto’s combative gaze pulls him back to the world. “What d’you want?” the boy asks, prickly and accusatory, and Itachi offers him a small smile in response to placate him.

“Nothing sinister, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Battling the knot twisting at the base of his throat, Itachi adds, softer than before, “I saw you that day, at the funeral for my clan members.”

“Oh,” Naruto mutters in a tiny, ashamed voice, as if Itachi has brought an evil secret to life. His bright blue eyes dart away from Itachi, focusing on the rapidly greying snow all around them. “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Itachi reassures him immediately. “I thought it was very kind of you to make an appearance.” 

“Okay,” the boy retorts, visibly bewildered. After that they stand in silence, the only sounds around them that of the early evening human traffic, before Naruto finally asks, “So what do you want?” 

“Well, I was hoping to stop into one of the shops for dinner, and I wouldn’t mind some company. Unless you aren’t hungry, of course,” he adds, and as if on cue Naruto’s stomach grumbles loudly. The boy clamps a hand over his middle protectively, his face flushing even more, and Itachi bites back the chuckle he can feel threatening to escape. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Naruto demands after a significant pause, his brows knitted impossibly tight. 

“Why not?”

“No one else ever is,” Naruto counters, looking at Itachi as if he’s the dumbest person in their country, which Itachi can concede is a fair reaction. 

Nevertheless, he replies, “Perhaps we have something in common, then.” 

Naruto stares at him, clearly trying to discern the truth in his words. Since his birth he’s always been a fringe member of their society, so Itachi has no idea what he’s grasped about the politics of Konoha society, if anything. For all he knows Naruto remains blissfully unaware of the part he had unintentionally played in the downfall of Itachi’s people. Whatever conclusion he comes to Itachi does not know, but if nothing else he allows Itachi to stay in his presence a little while longer. Eventually Naruto stands and says, “You’re paying,” and in return Itachi huffs a small laugh.

“Done.” 

To the average Ichiraku Ramen customer, Itachi supposes they make quite a pair: the much-maligned jinchuriki child and the emotionally withdrawn heir to a ruined dynasty sitting together at the counter, silently slurping at their noodles. But Itachi is used to stares and whispers, has lived with them all his life, and it's a burden he’s sure he shares with Naruto. So, the two of them eat in relative peace, aware of yet trying to ignore the cloud of gossip gathering around them. 

He’s pleasantly surprised to learn that beneath his loud-mouthed, cocky veneer Naruto is actually an enjoyable dinner companion. The boy doesn’t speak much, but that works for Itachi, who rarely has anything to contribute to casual conversations under the best of circumstances. At one point Naruto pokes his head into Itachi’s personal space, staring at his bowl in confusion. “What is that?” he asks suspiciously.

Amused, Itachi answers, “Ramen.”

“Yeah, but there’s no meat in it.”

“I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat any meat.”

“Weird,” Naruto drawls, slowly retreating, and Itachi hides his grin inside his cup of steaming hot tea. There’s something oddly charming about Naruto, with his false, over-confident smile and his complete lack of social graces, that makes Itachi’s heart squeeze inside his ribcage. Looking at the boy he imagines his own mother hovering at Naruto’s shoulder, fussing with his unruly blonde hair and chiding him for his sloppy table manners, and a mix of fondness and grief swirls through his chest.

That sensation remains with Itachi as he accompanies Naruto back to the sorry excuse for a home the Third Hokage has provided him with. It takes great effort to keep the disapproval off his face once he sees the condition of the building Naruto resides in, and once again he finds himself wondering exactly why the old man makes the choices he does. But such thoughts are quickly banished when a bashful Naruto pipes up to thank him for dinner.

“I should thank you for keeping me company,” Itachi replies.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Naruto adds, with a quiet fierceness, “I really am sorry, you know. For what happened to you.”

Of the countless apologies Itachi has received since his clan’s destruction, it’s one of the only condolences he actually believes to be sincere. “Thank you,” he replies earnestly, and Naruto nods jerkily in return. Without thinking, Itachi reaches up to unwind the black scarf currently wrapped around his neck before presenting it to Naruto. 

Bristling, the boy snaps, “I don’t need your charity.”

“Of course not,” Itachi agrees easily, “but I don’t want it anymore. If anything you’re doing me a favor by taking it.”

Though he still looks dubious, eventually Naruto snatches the gift out of his hands. “Fine,” he mutters, then disappears inside his apartment without another word. 

It’s a short distance between Naruto’s home and his own, meaning it isn’t long before he’s unlocking his front door to find Sasuke staring at him accusingly from the kitchen. “Where were you?”

“Having dinner with a friend,” Itachi answers, lips curling in amusement as he shakes his bag of leftovers at his brother. “Are you hungry?”

“For ramen?” Sasuke wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Never.” 

At that, Itachi can only laugh. Later that night, he drifts off with a warmth he hasn’t felt since his parents’ death stuck between his ribs. Even though he knows it's the most fleeting of comforts, for once Itachi doesn’t question its presence. 

*

At the dawn of the new year Itachi returns to his former life.

There’s no sense of grandiosity as he arrives at ANBU Headquarters; his comrades do not welcome him with open arms or express any sort of sentiment at his once again joining their ranks. Having spent many years in the organization Itachi was prepared for such an occurrence and considers himself lucky to receive even a few nods of acknowledgement as he resumes his post. Quite honestly, after so many months of fuss and questioning, it’s almost a relief to find himself ignored. 

It takes less than a week for Itachi to receive an assignment, and he’s immediately grateful for the distraction. Though part of him had feared he would be rusty after months of sedentary desk-duty, it turns out he need not have worried, as he quickly learns that even all these months later his skills remain as sharp and deadly as his blade. 

After that he's placed on mission after mission, the faces and locations of them all blending together like blood and water pouring down a drain, and for the first time in his life it feels good. For the first time he welcomes the ache in his muscles and the tears in his clothing. For the time his deeds don’t keep him up at night, filled with sorrow and shame; instead Itachi finds himself stumbling into his apartment, beaten and exhausted, and passes out as soon as his head hits his pillow. It’s almost intoxicating how little he thinks and feels, how he barely considers anything outside of the immediate pressure to live, to hunt, to kill. After spending more than half a year dwelling on the brother that depends on him, on the family that was taken from him, and the cousin that betrayed him, Itachi’s happy to leave it all behind, even if it’s just a temporary reprieve. 

Unfortunately, not everyone views Itachi’s re-enlistment to be such a blessing. The disapproval is clearly plastered across Sasuke’s face every time Itachi comes home after being gone for days, if not weeks, at a time. In his defense, Itachi never falters in his duties; despite his absence he makes sure his brother is fed and cared for, though each time he returns it feels as if Sasuke is that much further away from him. But it isn’t just his brother watching Itachi with furrowed brows and skittish gazes; even his fellow ANBU regard Itachi as more monster than man. It’s not an assessment wholly without merit, given that as the nights grow longer and the winter drags on Itachi starts to lose perspective on his own person. He begins to avoid his own reflection, pretending he doesn’t see the shadows beneath his eyes and the harsh curves of his cheekbones. It’s just a phase, he tells himself, a sign he’s still adjusting to his new reality. It will get better.

All things considered, it takes a surprisingly long time for anyone to confront Itachi about his increasing ghoulishness. Unsurprisingly, it is once again Kakashi who takes it upon himself to tackle Itachi’s demons. He’s returning from yet another mission when, in a move that feels more than a little premeditated, Kakashi just happens to cross his path. “You,” Kakashi begins from across the ANBU locker room, “look like absolute shit.”

“Polite as always, Kakashi-senpai,” Itachi replies as he shrugs his uniform shirt over his head, the material heavy and damp with sweat--among other things. 

“Have you been sleeping?”

“I’ve been working. Surely you’re familiar with such a concept?”

“Hilarious,” Kakashi deadpans. Even though Itachi refuses to meet his gaze, from the corner of his eye he can still see the way Kakashi is watching him. It’s in the same fashion as he did after the memorial service, the last time his former captain tried to give a stirring ‘do not fall prey to your lesser instincts’ speech. Leaning against the lockers, Kakashi sighs and tells him, “You already know what I’m going to say.” 

“I do,” Itachi agrees, slamming the door to his own locker with a bit of unnecessary force, “and to be honest I don’t particularly care.”

“What about your brother? You care about him?” 

As intended, the words strike Itachi like a knife through the heart. “With all due respect, you are the last person from whom I desire lessons on health and mental well-being,” he retorts, and Kakashi snorts.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the man says, then disappears without another word, leaving Itachi alone with nothing but his thoughts and his ghosts. 

Though he’s tried to silence his own voice of reason, deep down he can tell he’s gone off the course he’s meant to be on, that he’s been put on the path of disaster instead. While everyone’s been careful enough not to spell out the obvious, Itachi isn’t so oblivious that he doesn’t see exactly why he’s been making such unhinged choices. It was because Itachi was searching inside every village, every country, every shadow on the planet for a familiar face, the one face that has been haunting him since the night of his people’s mass execution. 

Clever as always, Itachi can sense that at the end of the road something ugly is waiting for him, and he knows that it’s just a matter of time before he finds it.

Less than a month later, it finds him first. 

*

There are certain pieces of Itachi’s life that will remain with him until the moment he meets his inevitable end. They are bits of sense memory buried so deeply inside him he couldn’t remove them if he tried, like the sound of his brother’s laugh or the scent of his mother’s perfume. The feel of Shisui’s chakra, as heavy and scorching as the summer air, is another, which is how he ends up ripped from his sleep while on mission in Kumo to find himself face-to-face with the man himself. 

Itachi has pictured this meeting since the moment he found his home in bloody shambles, has imagined what their reunion would be like an untold amount of times. In his mind’s eye he’s watched himself destroy Shisui, watched Shisui destroy him. He’s seen himself begging for answers, crying and pleading like a pathetic little child sobbing for their parents. But none of his dark daydreams and twisted fantasies have prepared him for the reality of the situation, which is this: Shisui leaning against the window of Itachi’s guest room, his features shadowed and his face completely expressionless as he watches Itachi fully regain consciousness.

Though he knows it’s a futile effort, Itachi still can’t repress the instinct that has him reaching for the kunai buried beneath his mattress. In seconds the weapon is flying from his fingers, directed at Shisui, and not a single part of Itachi is shocked when Shisui catches it effortlessly. Just as quickly the knife is directed back at Itachi, coming so close to his face that it weaves through the curtain of his loose hair, before it settles into the wall behind Itachi’s head. “Don’t bother,” Shisui eventually tells him, his tone listless in a way Itachi has never heard before. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” 

“Why don’t you?” Itachi replies, furious at the ragged sound of his voice. Despite all his ANBU training and all his prowess as a shinobi, when faced with the cousin he has loved so much for so long, he can only crumble, as weak as any other heartbroken boy. “All this death and destruction you’ve caused, and for what purpose? What _do_ you want, Shisui?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Shisui retorts easily, though he sounds throughly uninterested in the answer. “You’ve been hunting me, haven’t you? Chasing me all across the world in the hopes of--what, exactly? Bringing justice to Konoha to atone for my evil deeds? Getting revenge for our people?” Snorting, he says, “Save the sentimentality, Itachi; it doesn’t suit you.” 

Itachi stares at his cousin, takes in the cold, black void of his gaze and the flat line of his mouth, and feels hollow. It’s as if he’s a slaughtered animal with each and every organ harvested, leaving only a husk of skin and bone behind. “I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he whispers finally. 

“Maybe you never did,” Shisui offers, and the words finally push Itachi to break. 

“What happened to you?” he demands, the words crackling with emotion he’s desperately trying to hold back. “If someone forced you to do this--if it was Danzo…” Itachi pauses, inhaling a shuddering breath, before continuing, “I can help you. Please, just tell me why--” 

“Don’t look for me again,” Shisui cuts in with stony finalty. “Whatever it is you were hoping to get from me--answers, remorse, regret--you won’t find it. Give up now before you waste what’s left of your life on an impossible quest.”

“And here I thought you’d like to watch me destroy myself,” Itachi says flatly, and for the first time he sees a flash of emotion flicker across Shisui’s face. It’s too brief for Itachi to identify it and disappears so quickly that later, as he looks back on this moment, he’s sure he’ll question its very existence. But right now he’s positive that despite his cousin’s suddenly stoic persona there’s still a piece of the Uchiha’s trademark fire that burns in Shisui’s chest. What’s keeping those flames alive, however, Itachi can’t begin to imagine.

“I could care less what you do,” Shisui says after a pause, “as long as you stay away from me.” The image of Shisui before him seems to shudder as the man activates the shunshin, and before Itachi can even process what has happened his former friend has disappeared entirely. 

For a long moment, Itachi remains frozen, staring at the empty space Shisui left behind. His heart hammers in his ribcage, tears prickling at his wide eyes before he eventually blinks them away. Standing on shaky limbs, he walks across the room to pry open his door and investigate the fate of his fellow ANBU. As he expected, each one remains deep in slumber, unaware of and unaffected by Shisui’s intrusion. Relieved yet unsettled, Itachi returns to his own chamber, sinking into his bed like a stone falling into the ocean. 

Since the fall of the great Uchiha clan, there’s terrifyingly little that Itachi feels sure of. He’s not confident in his own ability to give his brother a good life without splintering to pieces in the process. He does not know if he can ever function in the way that he is expected to, in the fashion that a good ANBU soldier should. And he’s painfully suspicious of his village and the role they played in the murder of his people. But if there’s anything that Itachi is positive of, it is his belief that Uchiha Shisui always has been and probably always will be one of the worst liars Konoha has ever produced. Without a doubt Itachi is sure that the harsh words Shisui spoke and the alien expression he wore were merely artifice. The problem now is the same demon he has been wrestling with since his best friend up and killed everyone they had known since childhood: he still does not know _why_ any of this is happening. 

While his appearance was no doubt designed to stop Itachi’s mad search in its tracks, it has had precisely the opposite effect. Beneath the glow of the full moon, Itachi lies awake and makes a single promise to himself and, secretly, to Shisui: he will learn the truth of the Uchiha’s demise, even if it destroys them both in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to update this much sooner but then i got a new job and well. here we are. anyway thanks for reading and all the comments and kudos i've gotten so far, it really means a lot. see you next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse of the Sharingan, Itachi thinks bitterly, and of the entire Uchiha clan, has never been bloodlust or even persecution; it’s memory, the weight of never forgetting, that drags them down, holds them deep beneath the waves until they inevitably drown.
> 
> At age twelve, he had thought his little brother had been childish and silly for his ghost stories. 
> 
> But at age seventeen, Itachi is beginning to feel more than a little haunted himself.

Like most children his age, Sasuke at age five had been a ball of rapidly shifting obsessions. Itachi clearly remembers his dinosaur phase, months and months of Sasuke clinging to plush toys of various species and shoving his tiny hands in the dirt, passionately searching for errant fossils. After that it had been cats, which had resulted in weeks and weeks of begging for a tiny feline of his own that was finally (and rather ruthlessly) quashed by their father’s blunt dismissal. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Sasuke’s young mind turned its keen focus to, of all things, ghosts.

Just before his sixth birthday his younger brother became suddenly and intensely focused on the idea that their home at the center of the Uchiha compound was haunted. It was a notion that their mother and Itachi had tried to combat with gentle conviction, reassuring the wide-eyed, stammering boy that they were alone in the house, that they were _safe_. 

It was not, however, a idea that Shisui made any effort to combat; if anything, fifteen-year-old Shisui, with his lanky limbs and thin smirk of a smile, had only egged Sasuke on, feeding into his younger cousin's fears in a fashion that made Itachi want to smack him.

Eventually, the whole thing came to a head during a sleepover at the Uchiha’s main house. It had been Shisui’s idea to spend the night ghosthunting and Sasuke, who’d thought the world of Shisui back then, had happily agreed, his eyes bright and his smile even brighter. Given he and Itachi’s friendship and Mikoto’s obvious fondness for him, Shisui was a frequent guest at their home, even though as he got older the lines of disapproval on Fugaku's face grew deeper with each passing year. With a vividness Itachi curses he remembers that night, can picture the cicadas alive in the darkness all around them and the feeling of warmth and comfort fading away as Shisui crawled out of their shared sleeping bag. Of course, any lingering contentment immediately vanished when Shisui reappeared minutes later, pouncing at Sasuke from the shadows as he pretended to be one of the ghouls that had plagued the boy for months, causing Sasuke to cry so loud it woke up both of their parents.

Hands off as always, Fugaku retreated back to the master bedroom after levelling Shisui with an unimpressed glare. But Mikoto had stayed behind, had placed both of her hands on Shisui’s shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. To his credit, Shisui shifted with obvious guilt, struggling to face the disappointment in her gaze. “That was wrong,” she said, firmly not though unkind. “You need to fix it.” 

“Yes, Auntie,” Shisui replied dutifully, cowed in a way that was rare for Itachi's brash, confident cousin, before doing just that. 

Even all these years later, Itachi can still picture the scene with perfect recollection. If he tries hard enough (and most times he does not, for the sake of his sanity) he can imagine the sounds of Sasuke’s soft, sniffled breaths and the sweet way Shisui spoke to him from his position on his knees beside Sasuke’s bed, lowering himself to the boy’s level to seem less intimidating. Itachi can picture a lot of things, if he tries hard enough. It’s easy to recall the rich scent of his mother’s homemade broths and the even richer scent of her blood, acrid and fresh as it burnt through his nose. It’s far too easy to recall the faint laughter lines around Shisui’s eyes as they trained by the Nakano and the cold emptiness etched across his face when Itachi encountered him that fateful evening. The curse of the Sharingan, Itachi thinks bitterly, and of the entire Uchiha clan, has never been bloodlust or even persecution; it’s memory, the weight of never forgetting, that drags them down, holds them deep beneath the waves until they inevitably drown.

At age twelve, he had thought his little brother had been childish and silly for his ghost stories. 

But at age seventeen, Itachi is beginning to feel more than a little haunted himself. 

*

It starts, rather unceremoniously, with a simple headache.

After what feels like a lifetime of slaughter and violence, Itachi is more than acquainted with the aches and pains of shinobi life. Since the loss of his family he’s been pushing himself harder than ever before, eager to lose his mind completely in the ebb and flow of missions, and while his spirit has adjusted to the punishing pace his body has been slower to catch up. These days it’s not unusual for him to stumble back to his and Sasuke’s shared apartment with a limp he can’t explain or a series of vicious cuts he hides from his brother with a thick layer of bandages. It’s just another hurt he’s grown accustomed to, another injury he’s added to his vast collection of discomfort and misery.

So, when flashes of pain suddenly start flickering through his temple, Itachi compartmentalizes the sensation as he does everything else: by acknowledging it with bland, academic interest before filing it away entirely. He expects the feeling to pass, just like every other hurt before it, or at least to push past it in the same ruthless way he always does. But that doesn’t happen; instead, the ache remains in his head, festering like rot as it spreads and makes a home in his eyes. Still, Itachi tries to continue on with his life, ignoring the steadily increasing agony as if it isn’t sickening his stomach or keeping him awake night after night, with his head trapped between his shaking hands. 

It isn’t until, nearly two months after the first spasm inside his skull, Itachi’s vision blurs dangerously and he loses his footing mid-pursuit deep in the desert of Suna, that he finally admits there’s a problem. As soon as he returns from his mission his teammates drag him to a doctor beneath ANBU’s headquarters who puts him through test after test, subjects him to exam after exam. But despite everyone’s searching and to Itachi’s immense disappointment nothing conclusive is found. As far as the doctor is concerned there’s nothing clinically wrong with Itachi, save for deep-seated physical exhaustion and perhaps a touch of malnutrition, which leaves one rather unpleasant conclusion to be drawn: there’s something wrong with his Sharingan, something only another Uchiha could understand. 

There are fleeting moments--few and far between because Itachi stubbornly refuses to allow them to linger--where he feels the weight of being a living artifact of his people. Often times when his grief engulfs him it’s small, personal; Itachi mourns his parents, imperfect as they were, and the home their family managed to create despite the unsavory circumstances of the Uchiha’s internment. Occasionally he finds himself missing the smell of street food, thick and greasy in the night, and the polite waves of his neighbors as he walked the path from the sequestered compound to Konoha’s busy center. But now, with his eyes throbbing and his emotions frantic and tangled he finds himself feeling a bone-deep, fearful desire to connect with someone, _anyone_ , who shares the unique burden of being an Uchiha, longing to find just a single member of his bloodline who can soothe and guide him. 

Of course, thanks to Shisui, that wish is an impossible one, leaving Itachi no option but to seek out the next best thing. 

*

Surprise is written clear across the visible section of Kakashi’s face when, on an unusually bitter March afternoon, he opens his door to find Itachi on the other side of it. The truth is that Itachi has actually been outside much longer than the other man knows, silently weighing the pros and cons of admitting weakness by seeking the guidance of someone else. By the time he actually mustered up the courage to act decisively his hands were stiff from the cold, moving awkwardly to summon the apartment’s sole occupant. Idly he thinks of his lost scarf, the one he sees whenever he catches the occasional glimpse of Naruto moving through the village like a shadow, and sinks deeper into his coat as Kakashi silently evaluates him. 

“Are you lost?” Kakashi eventually asks, and Itachi frowns at the dual nature of the question. It’s so like Kakashi, he thinks in annoyance, to speak in tricks and riddles instead of simply verbalizing his concern. Then again, perhaps the fault actually lies with Itachi, who has been slapping away Kakashi’s outstretched hand since the moment it was first extended to him in the wake of his clan’s annihilation. 

Despite the fear the words instill in him, Itachi replies, tone hushed, “I need your help.” 

Kakashi stares him again with that unreadable look Itachi has never fully understood before widening the door. “Come in, then.”

It’s odd, in a way that Itachi hadn’t fully expected it to be, to step inside Kakashi’s home. The truth is that, outside of perfunctory ANBU business, he’s never thought about his superior very much, never imagined what the place Kakashi called home--if he even _called_ it home--would be like. In hindsight, he supposes it's no surprise that the tiny apartment is as severe and devoid of personalization as Kakashi is, the only spot of warmth a small collection of hardy plants and herbs by the window no doubt gifted to him by Maito Gai. It makes him think of his own dwellings, of how soulless and empty the walls and floors would be without Sasuke to lend them the gift of his color and light. 

Feeling awkward and out of place, Itachi lingers in the main area until Kakashi snorts and waves a hand towards his kitchen table. “You can sit, you know,” the man tells him and Itachi, not knowing what else to do, does just that.

Silence sits between the two of them as Kakashi moves through the kitchen preparing tea for the two of them, though it’s not a wholly unpleasant quiet. Sometimes Itachi forgets that, for all the ways he and Kakashi are so different they’re also incredibly similar. Their shared tissue is clear in their prodigy status and the burdens they both bear. It’s obvious in the way the shinobi world and Konoha in particular broke them so early on in life, crushing their childhood innocence beneath a blood-soaked foot. The reminder makes it easier to cope with Kakashi’s awkwardness, because when he chooses to be self-aware Itachi can see that same tendency in himself. 

Eventually Kakashi places a tiny, light blue cup of steaming tea in front of Itachi before settling in the space across from him. Reaching up, Itachi wraps his fingers around the mug, content just to draw its warmth into himself. Kakashi mirrors his movement, almost uncannily so, before he asks, “How can I help you?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know if you can. But I didn’t… There was no one else,” Itachi finishes, eyes flickering off to the side as he takes the smallest sip of his tea.

“Okay,” Kakashi says simply, like there’s nothing else that needs to be said. Perhaps one of the man’s greatest gifts, the thing that makes him so intimidating as both a shinobi and as a confidant, is his frightening level of patience. Itachi knows, in the way he knows that the sun will rise and fall, that he could spend the rest of his life seated at this chipped wooden table and Kakashi would allow him without ever pressing for another word. 

It’s a power he’s equal parts afraid of and grateful for, as it gives him the much-needed time to pull the explanation out from the pit of his gut. “I think there’s something wrong with my Sharingan,” he finally elaborates, aimlessly trailing a finger along the rim of his cup to focus on something other than the intent way Kakashi is currently studying him. 

“And you think I could tell you what the issue is?” Kakashi counters mildly. “Hate to say it, but I don’t have the best answers on how this thing works considering it’s not even mine.” Something dark and old cross Kakashi’s face, prickling a shudder along Itachi’s spine before it disappears entirely. “Besides, even if I did, you’ve always been better at using the Sharingan than me.”

“I suspect I’m better than you at many things,” Itachi argues wryly, in an attempt to banish the sullen atmosphere building between them. It has its intended effect, as Kakashi’s lips curl in sarcastic amusement beneath his ever-present mask. Their shared good humor disappears as Itachi continues, “Ever since I awakened the Sharingan, I’ve never struggled to harness its powers. For better or worse, my family’s abilities always came to me naturally. But now…” Itachi hesitates, internally debating on whether or not to reveal one of his many deeply-held secrets that have sprung up in the wake of his clan’s destruction. With a frown, he decides to take a chance and admits out loud for the very first time, “The night of the massacre I awakened the Mangekyo Sharingan. I didn’t want to or mean to, it just… found me, I suppose.” 

Surprise flares in Kakashi’s one visible eye, the one that doesn’t bear the brunt of Itachi’s family legacy. “That’s… to be expected, I guess,” he replies slowly, seemingly unsure how to feel about the revelation. “Have you… used it, at all?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.” It’s a humiliating thing for someone like Itachi, defined by his talent and his ability, to confess. When he’d first gained the power of the Sharingan much of it had been intuitive, like remembering the words to a much-loved book he hadn’t read for many years. It had helped that when he was lost or confused he had his father to guide him, to untangle the complexities of the various jutsus he was conquering. But that steady hand and unwavering well of knowledge was long gone, dead and buried and lost forever. Now Itachi stood alone, burdened by a power he never wanted and didn’t understand. 

When Itachi was younger Fugaku had once confessed to him, as they sat by the waters of their estate’s vast koi pond, that he hoped Itachi would never unlock the Mangekyo. As he sits in Kakashi’s lifeless home with the fires of his family’s darkest technique slowly burning away at his eye sockets, he suspects he’s beginning to understand why. 

“Do you think that’s why you’ve been so sick lately?” Kakashi asks, dragging Itachi back to the current moment, and he nods in response.

“It’s ridiculous, but it almost feels like I’m being punished for not using it. For wasting it.”

“I’m not sure that’s it,” Kakashi argues. “From what I understand, the Mangekyo’s one of the most powerful things that shinobi world’s ever seen. That’s a lot of chakra sitting there unused, aimless. It’s probably eating away at you because it doesn’t know what else to do.”

With a sick little curl in his stomach, Itachi thinks that’s not unlike his feelings for Shisui, which seem to curdle and rot a tiny bit more each day. “Perhaps I should be kinder to it, then,” he suggests dryly, “since we’re both confused.” 

The admission of vulnerability feels like a weapon Itachi has carelessly handed away and he waits, with anxiety bleeding in his veins, for Kakashi to stab it with him. But Kakashi never does. Offering Itachi an unexpected reprieve, he turns his gaze to the window beside him, looking below him without actually seeing anything. “Why come to me?” he asks finally. “I know it’s not just because I have the Sharingan.”

Why, indeed. There are a million different answers Itachi could give, some real, some not. In the end, he decides to go with the one that feels most honest: “Because you don’t treat me like everyone else does.”

Kakashi tilts his head curiously as he glances at Itachi once more. “And how’s that?”

“Like you feel sorry for me,” he says, bitterness sitting heavy on his tongue as he speaks. 

“That’s because you don’t want me to,” Kakashi counters with a shrug. “Feel sorry for you, I mean.” After a moment of thoughtful silence he eventually sighs and adds, “I’m afraid I don’t have any advice for you about how to fix your… problem. I wish I did, but…” 

“I know,” Itachi reassures him, and means it. All along, he knew this was just a longshot, an act of desperately reaching out into the universe with the impossible hope of grasping onto something-- _anything_ \--that could help him make sense of his current state. It’s not Kakashi’s fault that he can’t be the man Itachi’s really looking for. “There’s only one person who can actually help me, and that’s…” A wave of guilty affection flows through Itachi, fierce and unexpected, and he swallows thickly, trying to clear it away before it pulls him out to sea. “That’s not an option,” he finishes quietly, staring without focus at his rapidly cooling tea. 

“Itachi,” Kakashi begins, uncharacteristically tentative, and the sound of his unsure voice has Itachi rising from his seat in a nervous rush, as he’s almost certain he doesn’t want to hear whatever’s going to follow. 

“I should go,” he declares, pushing the chair in with a harsh scrape after he pulls on his coat. “Thank you for the tea, and for the advice.” In seconds he’s walking across the kitchen, determinedly striding towards the door in the hopes of escape. 

“Itachi,” Kakashi says again, and this time the way he calls out his name has Itachi freezing with his hand on the man’s doorknob. He doesn’t turn, too afraid to see how Kakashi’s currently looking at him, but he does allow him to continue. It takes a moment for Kakashi to finish his thought, no doubt tripping over the pressure of expressing a earnest sentiment for once. But when he does, he tells Itachi in a quiet yet determined voice, “It’s okay, you know. If you still love him. You can’t just--things like that don’t change overnight.”

It’s the very first time such a sentiment has been spoken aloud, as not even Itachi himself has ever released the words into the open air. Before his entire world was thrown off its axis, his feelings for Shisui had been his most closely-guarded secret, terrifying in their size and power, and now that Shisui has decided to become the most hated person in Konoha Itachi’s undying attachment to him has been made all the more dangerous. 

Painfully, Itachi is reminded of the last time Kakashi awkwardly fumbled into a heart-to-heart with him regarding Shisui, how he tried (and eventually succeeded) to talk Itachi off the path of revenge. It was a much easier thing to ask Itachi not to destroy himself with vengeance than it is to ask Itachi to forgive himself for the crime of love. “Please,” he whispers once he’s capable of speech again, the word ragged in a way he doesn’t recognize. “ _Please,_ stop.”

“Okay,” Kakashi agrees mildly, and the fight drains from Itachi’s frame, leaving absolute nothingness in its wake. After seeming to contemplate it for a few moments, he adds, as kindly as people like them are capable of, “For the record, you’re welcome here anytime.”

His throat tightening once more, Itachi doesn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he offers a curt little nod before slipping out the front door into the icy sunlit day, where at least he can claim that it’s the cold winter wind that’s bringing tears to his stinging eyes. 

*

In the wake of his painfully genuine meeting with Kakashi, an idea that’s as terrible as it is necessary plagues Itachi’s thoughts. 

What Itachi had said that afternoon was true: there was no way he could seek out Shisui’s guidance, no possibility of securing Shisui’s vast knowledge without risking total self-destruction. But perhaps it was possible to access just a fraction of Shisui’s power in the hopes of understanding his own, and as agonizing as even the thought of his insane plan was, it was worth it if it could help Itachi see the forest from the trees. 

The memory of Sasuke and his ridiculous ghost stories once again fills Itachi’s mind as, for the second time since Shisui fled the village, he enters his cousin’s long-abandoned home. Given how many months have passed since its owner’s disappearance, Itachi isn’t surprised to find the tiny home covered in grime, a musty smell clinging to the walls and drifting along the furniture. With a frown he climbs the ancient staircase, ignoring the pang the sight of his footprints on the dusty floor sends through his heart as he steps inside Shisui’s former bedroom. 

It’s the thinnest, most impossible of hopes that there’s something within these walls that can help Itachi master the Mangekyo. But given that his options are searching Shisui’s old home or giving into the yawning, miserable abyss that _not_ mastering the Mangekyo means, he’s willing to take his chances. 

Itachi doesn’t even know where to start, as the house is so empty it’s almost daunting, but after a heavy pause he eventually sighs and dives in. For the next few hours Itachi pulls the forgotten house apart with reckless abandon. He yanks Shisui’s sheets away and flips the mattress; he opens all the drawers in the kitchen and nearly tugs off the door to each cabinet in his mad search; he drags each piece of clothing Shisui left behind out of the closet and digs into every pocket. Once, when he’s feeling particularly bruised, he lifts the collar of one of the shirts to his nose and, in a confusing rush of mixed emotions, learns that somehow, even after almost a year of absence, it still smells like Shisui. Immediately after Itachi tosses the shirt away as if it’s personally wounded him and continues, with an increasing, almost manic helplessness, to look. 

By the end of the afternoon the remains of Shisui’s life sit around Itachi in a mess, which he thinks, with dark amusement, is fitting. Feeling more lost than ever, he allows himself to sink to the floor, the back of his head lightly thumping against Shisui’s bedroom closet, and closes his eyes--his _stupid_ fucking eyes, the eyes Shisui has forced upon him just as he has so many other terrible little gifts. Though he knew it was the slimmest of possibilities that the man who took everything from him could somehow sweep in and save him, Itachi had believed in it despite his better instincts. Because, even though the voice of logic in his head screams at him to abandon any and all remnants of Shisui, Itachi simply can’t bear to let him go. 

He doesn’t know what compels him to peel himself off the ground and investigate one last spot, but an odd suspicion guides his hand as he opens the closet once more. Precariously balancing on the tips of his toes, Itachi drives both of his palms into the closet’s ceiling, popping the plaster in a fashion that’s much easier than expected. Of course, the answer for that appears almost instantly, as a second after Itachi’s attack of impromptu interior decorating a small, black journal falls from the darkness above and lands at his feet with a thud. 

With his heart caught in his throat, threatening to choke the life from him, Itachi bends down and takes the journal in his hands. His fingers trace the worn leather of the cover as he recalls, with suffocating accuracy, the numerous times he’s seen this very book in Shisui’s possession. Not long after their friendship began Shisui had confessed, with childish vulnerability, that it was an artifact left behind by his grandfather. That only Uchiha Kagami’s words, gifted to his grandson from beyond his grave, had guided Shisui into becoming the man--or, to some people, the monster--he was.

Itachi has never seen the inside of the journal for himself; it had seemed too private, too precious, for him to personally investigate. But now, given all that Shisui’s stripped away from him, he thinks he’s entitled to some of his cousin’s secrets. 

Settling on the edge of Shisui’s former bed, Itachi inhales a deep, shaky breath and turns to the first page. He doesn’t know how much time he spends there, studying what is quickly revealed to be an invaluable piece of his family’s history. Inside the journal there are long, detailed explanations for various jutsu, with finely drawn diagrams for some of the more complicated abilities, and Itachi absorbs each word and sketch with a furious hunger. 

About halfway through the writing switches from what he presumes to be Kagami’s to a script he knows, without question, is Shisui’s own, and it hurts, for a reason he can’t fully explain, to see how Shisui contributed to this record of their people. It causes a sweet heartbreak to bubble up in his chest to learn from yellowing pages instead of his cousin’s own mouth that in the months leading up to Shisui’s defection he mastered the Susano’o, the first Uchiha in decades to accomplish such a feat. But perhaps, given the army of secrets Shisui has decided to keep from Itachi, it’s only fitting for him to make such a discovery on his own. 

For now, this journal is enough of an answer for Itachi. It’s certainly more than enough to assist him in his quest to avoid being swallowed whole by the Mangekyo’s power, digested in its hungry, bloodthirsty stomach. Slipping the book into his pocket, Itachi stands from his place on Shisui’s bed in order to leave the rest of the home before. Before he can, though, he’s stopped in his tracks, frozen silent and still by something just outside Shisui’s bedroom window. To anyone else, it would be an ordinary sight, unremarkable and easy to miss; to Itachi it feels like a threat, like a warning, like a gift.

Because, just outside Shisui’s bedroom window, on the branch of a slow-blooming tree, there sits a sleek black crow, watching Itachi with fathomless red eyes. 

*

(Another memory, from long ago:

Shisui, fifteen years old, his skin turned golden by the light of the summer sun: “Do _you_ believe in ghosts?”

Itachi, a few years younger and small and pale in comparison, constantly seeking Shisui’s warmth for the sake of his own survival: “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it seriously.” A curious silence, then: “Do you?”

“Sure,” Shisui answered easily, as if the admittance didn’t mean a damn thing to him. “With the kind of life we lead, I think there must be ghosts everywhere.”)

  
  


*

After careful contemplation, Itachi decides to keep the afternoon spent at Shisui’s home and the omen he witnessed there to himself. It would do no good to discuss such things, he reasons, not when he’s unable to fully explain to the world around him why he went to the building in the first place. Not when he can’t trust his features to remain neutral and his voice to remain strong, as he casually informs people that his mass murderer of a cousin, the one who left him alive for some unfathomable reason, the one that Itachi is still miserably and inexplicably in love with, may or may not be stalking him. 

Instead, Itachi carries on in exactly the same fashion as before, living his life in the abnormal normal he’s created since he lost everything. Without fail, Itachi continues to care for his brother and successfully executes his missions, performing every duty that’s expected of him just as he always has. The fact that he’s living with the specter of Shisui over his shoulder makes little difference to Itachi, considering he’s been doing precisely that since the moment the man left their village--and _Itachi_ \--behind. After all, just because there’s now a physical manifestation of Shisui following him around doesn’t mean Shisui hasn’t been haunting him all this time as it is. 

There’s no way to predict when the bird will make an appearance, no schedule to Shisui’s summon that Itachi can easily track. Sometimes he spots the creature on his missions, carefully watching from the shadows as Itachi’s body count grows higher and higher. Other times the crow lingers on the massive, gnarled tree just outside Itachi’s kitchen window, beady eyes narrowing as Itachi tries--and fails--not to burn dinner for the third time that week. The worst is when it follows him to the secluded training ground he carved out for himself in his youth, a hidden spot deep within the thick forests of Konoha, he finds himself revisiting as he attempts to master the Sharingan for a second time. 

Despite his efforts, his progress with the Mangekyo has been… slow, at best. As invaluable a resource as Kagami’s journal has proven, there’s still some key, some hidden secret, that lies just outside Itachi’s grasp and prevents him from completely unlocking his abilities. Time and time again, Itachi has racked his brain, searched the small library of shinobi-related knowledge that lives within his mind, for some clue that could open the Mangekyo Sharingan to him. But despite all his effort one never comes, which means that every day he spends within Konoha’s borders, during the hours Sasuke is away at school learning to become a fearsome killer like his brother before him, is a day spent training hopelessly, again and again and again. 

Spring has struck Konoha like a fever, the return of the good weather obvious in the baby leaves that are just beginning to bloom on the branches all around him. The shade they provide is a small mercy, protecting Itachi from the sun’s harsh glare, even if it can’t fully save him from the pink burning along his shoulders or the sweat that soaks every inch of him. On a particularly toasty afternoon the crow finds him once more, as Itachi is slumped against the base of a tree he’s driven his kunai into more times than he can count. His chest heaving and his muscles soft from the excursion, he feels exceptionally vulnerable to Shisui’s presence. He also feels exceptionally irritated by it as, for the third day in a row, he’s been on the verge of bending Amaterasu to his will without managing to successfully execute the jutsu.

It hits him, in a sudden rush as fiery as his family’s signature move, just how angry he is with Shisui. In the aftermath of his cousin’s bloodshed, Itachi didn’t feel like he had room to be angry. There were so many other emotions that demanded his focus and his energy, like grief for his mother or worry for his brother, along with the self-loathing he made sure to bestow upon himself. But now that it’s been almost a year since the Uchiha clan was wiped off the map, Itachi feels, with stunning clarity, rage coursing through his veins. He’s furious with Shisui for his actions and even more furious at how he’s been denied any explanation or closure regarding the act. He’s mad at the village for its deception, for its lies, for pretending to give a single shit about his people when it had previously spent decades beating them as far into the ground as they could go. And he’s so fucking angry with this stupid fucking _bird_ that keeps following him around, taunting him with all the things he no longer has and will never have again. 

Without thinking, Itachi turns on the creature with the fury of a madman. “Are you happy?” he asks, just shy of screaming. “Does it bring joy to see me like this, hmm? All the years we spent in competition with one another, and this is how it ends. Congratulations, Shisui! You win!” Unable to stop himself, he reaches for a stone lying next to him and tosses it at the crowd as hard he’s capable. It doesn’t reach the bird’s position, limply dropping to the ground before it even really takes flight, and the sight would almost be funny if Itachi didn’t feel the impulse to cut his own heart out at the image of Shisui’s vessel watching him so impassively. 

Having never lost his temper in such a spectacular fashion, it’s a force that isn’t destined to last. It’s not long before the fight drains from Itachi, anger seeping out of him just as quickly as it had overtaken him. With his rage depleted, all that’s left is the deep, agonizing sadness that the reminder of Shisui always stirs within him. In a last stitch effort of protecting himself, Itachi draws his knees up, burying his face in his thighs in a pathetic attempt at hiding from the world. For the first time in a long time he feels impossibly young, much closer to the teenager he knows he is than the ancient, jaded adult he’s been forced to become. But being with Shisui had always stirred such an emotion in him. Being with Shisui had made Itachi feel reckless and brave, drunk and stupid with just how much Itachi loved him. How much Itachi _still_ loves him. 

When he speaks again, the words spill from his mouth without his permission. “You told me,” he murmurs into the soft cotton of his pants, the fabric damp with tears he can’t fight, “to stay away from you. You said that. So, then why do all this? Why go out of your way to torture me?” Laughing without humor, he rubs at his eyes and asks, “Are you really that cruel, Shisui?” 

Itachi doesn’t receive an answer to any of his questions. Most of him isn’t expecting one, but he can admit, at least to himself, that deep down there’s a piece of him that’s always waiting for an answer. In the most carefully hidden piece of his heart, there’s a part of Itachi that is always waiting for Shisui to come home.

 _The Mangekyo feeds on the worst part of its user_ , Shisui’s voice echoes in his mind, and Itachi snaps his head up to stare at the crow hovering above him. 

“What does that even mean?” Itachi demands, desperate enough for an explanation that he doesn’t even bother to hide his tear-streaked face. 

_It means_ , Shisui carefully begins, _that to master it you’ll have to tap into what you hate the most about yourself_. 

Itachi snorts. For a moment it’s so preoccupied by the absurdity of the situation that he can’t feel anything but a black kind of humor. “And why should I listen to a single piece of advice from _you_?”

 _Because you always do_ , Shisui replies evenly, without a hint of mocking or malice, so matter-of-fact Itachi feels the words like a physical blow. At Itachi’s continued silence, his cousin adds, irritated, _If I’m wrong then it’s just one more shitty thing I’ve done to you, isn’t it?_

“That’s putting it mildly,” Itachi mutters as he climbs onto his feet once more. Considering his chronically low self-esteem and the regrets he hangs around his neck like a noose it’s shockingly difficult for Itachi to pinpoint a singular thing about himself he loathes most of all, and he stands in the otherwise silent forest being watched by the avian representation of a war criminal. When the answer hits him, though, its impact is quick and violent, and Itachi feels like a fool for not realizing it sooner.

Itachi knows what the worst part of himself is, has been more than sure of his biggest regret in this world since the moment he found the first slain clan member. What Itachi hates the most is how, even after everything that has happened, the sound of Shisui’s voice inside his mind, the familiar rhythm he’s always adored, still stirs the same longing within him. What Itachi hates the most is the way he’s certain he will be in love with Uchiha Shisui until the moment he leaves this world and will probably take that doomed affection into the afterlife as well. 

Suddenly, it’s as easy as breathing to manipulate the seemingly endless well of chakra summoned up by the Mangekyo. Guided by his memories of Shisui--his boyish smile, his messy hair, his bright and open laugh Itachi knows he’ll never hear again--Itachi moves unthinkingly, quick and nimble, and in seconds the tree Shisui’s crow is perched on is seized by a cluster of inky black flames. For a long moment Itachi watches as Amaterasu devours the wood, smoke rising from the forest’s heart in a thick plume, before he ceases the jutsu and surveys the wreckage he’s created. It’s terrible and beautiful, just like every other part of loving Shisui has been. 

In the wake of his destruction, Itachi doesn’t know how to think or what to say. Of course, Shisui solves one of those problems by doing the thing he’s best at: disappearing entirely. 

*

That night, once he’s put Sasuke to bed, Itachi lies in the darkness of his bedroom with nothing but aching limbs and wounded heart to keep him company. Caught between sleep and walking, Itachi’s almost close enough to dreaming to miss the sound of faint tapping on his window. But because it’s Itachi and because his finely-tuned instincts are the only reason he’s managed to survive this long, he hears it quite clearly. And he knows, before even drags himself from his bed, what’s waiting for him on the other side.

Away from the harsh light of day, it’s shockingly and unfortunately easy to drop his righteous front and give into the tenderest part of himself. That in mind, Itachi puts aside the pain and death he’s been carrying for months in favor carefully prying open his window to allow the bird access to his home. It’s an action that wouldn’t make sense to anyone other than Itachi; quite frankly it’s a decision that doesn’t even make sense to Itachi himself. But as the weight of the crow’s slender frame settles on his outstretched hand he knows, with a bone-deep surety, it’s what he needs.

“I miss you,” he tells the bird eventually, apropos of nothing, “but you already knew that.”

 _Yeah_ , Shisui replies, _I did._ It occurs to Itachi that probably means Shisui already knows everything else Itachi’s been thinking, about him or otherwise, and the idea is much less worrying than it once was; considering Shisui’s own crimes, he’s really in no place to judge Itachi’s misbegotten desire for him. 

If Shisui does feel any contempt towards him, however, he never articulates it. In fact, after his confirmation of Itachi’s feelings, Shisui doesn’t say--or think--another word. And so Itachi spends the rest of the night with the last remaining piece of Shisui he has left resting in the palm of his hand, a coldness unrelated to the evening breeze resting deep within his bones. 

Should his cousin remain so closely within his orbit, Itachi thinks, with a miserable twist of humor, that he and the Mangekyo Sharingan are destined to have a long and happy life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes, i AM just making shit up as i go along and twisting the naruto canon to suit my own needs. what gave it away??? 
> 
> anyway! a slightly spooky chapter to go along with a very spooky month. as always, thanks for reading and see you next time! in the meantime, catch me on tumblr @astoldbygingersnaps if you so choose~

**Author's Note:**

> sooo i really wasn't planning on starting another significant project until star trek au was done, but then this idea snuck up and bit me on the ass and now here we are. i don't have a lot to say right now except like
> 
> sorry for this
> 
> as always, you can find me on tumblr @astoldbygingersnaps. until next time!


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